Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome (16 page)

A leaf swirled through the open ceiling, fluttered through the atrium and settled in the pool. A tiny boat, Flavia thought, drifting out to sea.

“Pay attention,” Constantina said, “or your spinning won’t improve.”

Steadying her left hand, Flavia attempted to keep the distaff, top-heavy with flax, from tipping. In her right hand she held the weighted spindle, a slender rod designed to whorl the flax into thread. Copying her mother, she allowed the spindle’s weight to draw out the flax and tried to make an even thread. It snapped.

“Again,” her mother said.

“Vestals don’t have to spin flax.”

“You haven’t been selected yet.”

“I will be.”

Soon, Flavia told herself, she’d be rescued from marrying Egnatius. Just that morning Nero had sent her a handsome gift, a strand of lustrous pearls. She touched the necklace.

“Stop day-dreaming, Flavia.”

She took up the spindle again and attempted to whorl another strand of thread.

“Remember yesterday, Mater, when we went to get the flax?”

“Concentrate on what you’re doing.”

The morning had been chilly. She and her mother had huddled together in the coach, their cloaks wrapped tight and sheepskins snug over their knees. Flavia had pretended they were on a journey to somewhere exciting—Macedonia, where King Titus had turned everything he touched to gold, or Arabia, the land of genies, wishes and magic. She imagined traveling in her private coach, wrapped in silk and fur. But her daydream had been broken when they reached the city gates.

Beyond the wall a crowd had gathered and, as the coach left the city, it seemed a riot might erupt. The coachman urged the horses on, toward open fields and orchards, but a horde of people blocked the road.

“Crucify him,” a man shouted.

“Drive stakes into his wrists!”

“The cross is too good for him.”

“Look away,” Constantina said.

But Flavia could not help staring.

Her mother pointed to the sky. “See that flock of birds flying in formation? That’s a good omen for our purchase.”

“Ravens flying westward are a sign of death, Mater.” Flavia tugged her mother’s arm. “What are they doing to that man?”

“Pay attention,” Constantina said, bringing Flavia back to the present.

“Ouch.” She sucked blood from her finger.

“That’s what you get for day-dreaming. Be careful. The spindle’s sharp.” Constantina drew out a perfect thread, even and strong.

Flavia rolled her eyes. Her mother always made such useful comments. “Why did they crucify that man, Mater?”

“Stop thinking about that man or you’ll have nightmares.”

“But, what did he do?”

“He was a criminal. A slave. Many slaves are crucified.”

“How could you tell?”

“He bore the stigma of a fugitive. He must have run away.” Constantina shook her finger at Flavia. “When we don’t obey the law, when we are disobedient, we can expect punishment.”

“I’m sick of spinning.” Flavia dropped her distaff and spindle. A breeze blew through the atrium, damp and chilly. Though steam-heat ran through the floor, the room felt cold. “I’m going out.”

“It’s nearly time for bed, and it’s raining.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’re not to leave.”

“I’m sick of doing women’s work, sick of this house.” Flavia ran her hand through her silvery tresses, twisted a strand around her finger.

“Stop pulling on your hair.”

“Perhaps I’ll pay a visit to the Domus Transitoria tomorrow.” She rearranged the necklace Nero had given her, playing with the double strand.

“I want you to return those pearls.”

“That would be rude, Mater.”

“What of your reputation? Accepting expensive gifts from—”

“I’d rather be whore to Nero than slave to Egnatius.”

“Daughter!” Honoratus appeared in the doorway of his library, his face haggard. “Apologize to your mother.”

“For what? Speaking the truth?”

“For your impertinence.”

“Why do you think Nero wants to make me a vestal, Pater? He doesn’t want me to be married. He wants to keep me near.”

Her father’s shoulders sagged. “I would stop him if I could,” he said to Constantina. “But consider what he did to our son.”

“What did he do?” Flavia asked. “You said Marcus was a traitor and he committed suicide.”

Honoratus and Constantina held each other’s gaze. “Things aren’t always as they seem.”

“You lied to me?” Flavia looked from her mother to her father.

Honoratus stared past Flavia to a place she couldn’t fathom. “Your brother paid too much attention to the Greeks—Socrates, Plato, Aristotle. All that talk of democracy, of a republic, gave him ideas—”

“So Marcus wasn’t a traitor?”

“Only if ideas are enough to condemn a man.”

“We wanted to protect you,” Constantina said. She clasped her hands together, and held them in her lap, to stop them from trembling.

“Protect me from what?” Flavia asked, her voice rising in pitch. “From whom?” Her parents’ faces provided the answer. “Nero murdered Marcus? Is that what you’re saying? He killed my brother without cause?”

“Go to bed, Flavia.” Honoratus nodded toward the stairway.

“Answer me, Pater!”

“To bed. You’re tired.”

“To bed. To bed. To bed, of course!” Bile rushed into her mouth, and she thought she might vomit. Without kissing them goodnight, she raced up the stairs, ripped open the doorway’s curtain and threw herself onto her sleeping couch. She pressed her face into a pillow and screamed. So much for dreams of freedom. So much for trusting anyone. Her parents had lied to her, but they would not, never in a thousand years, marry her off to Egnatius.

She hugged the pillow to her chest, and began to formulate her plan: She would be Nero’s whore, serve her brother’s murderer. Anything to get out of her parent’s domus.

She leaned over the chamber pot and retched. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she stumbled to the window and flung open the shutters. The black branches of the fig tree grasped the leaden clouds. Down in the courtyard, she saw her constant watch-guard—since her escape to Nero’s feast her parents made sure she could not leave without permission.

Romulus and Remus pecked at their cage.

“There is no freedom in this world,” she said.

How long did it take, she wondered, to die on a cross? Hours? Days? She imagined the slave’s sinews tearing from his bones, his tongue swollen from lack of water, magpies pecking at his eyes—each moment an eternity. Could a person endure a lifetime of suffering? A lifetime of slavery?

She opened the cage.

Remus shied away from her, but she drew Romulus into her palm and stroked his downy chest. So soft and warm. So trusting. What would he do when she was gone?

She walked to the window, held the dove over the ledge. The bird fluttered its wings anticipating flight. She imagined the dove gliding through the courtyard, soaring high above the house, disappearing into clouds. But winter would be coming soon, and she couldn’t bear to think of him frozen and half-starved.

Better to die quickly and put an end to suffering.

Holding the dove against her heart, she whispered, “I’ll miss you.” And, with a sharp intake of breath, she wrenched its neck. She placed Romulus back inside the cage and reached for Remus.

Above the House of Vestals, on Palatine Hill, the Domus Transitoria stood sentinel. The windows stared vacantly at Elissa, mirroring the dismal sky and her even blacker mood.

She picked up her basket and walked along the portico past statues of dead priestesses, past the central pool. A breeze rippled the water, sent shivers down her back. She drew her cloak closer. All her life she’d followed protocol, lived by rules set down by others, and now she ventured down an unmarked path. Today marked Nero’s birth, the Ides of December, two days before the festival of Saturnalia—the ideal date to plot his death. Pulling up her cloak’s hood, she headed for the herb garden.

Planning someone’s eradication required passion, preparation, and devotion. For weeks she had tended the garden—pulling weeds, tilling soil, gathering vegetables. And relentlessly, as a mother cares for a babe-in-arms, she’d nurtured the patch of herbs.

Frost had changed the lush green mint into brownish stalks, and the leaves crumbled at her touch. The basil, named for Basilisk the fire-breathing dragon, had died long ago. But the thyme still thrived. She broke off a sprig, rolled the verdant leaves between her thumb and forefinger, then ran her hands along her arms, anointing herself as soldiers did before a battle. The thyme’s keen scent brought back the days of summer—happy days, before Nero had murdered Marcus.

Basket in hand, she pushed past a hedge of rosemary. The plant she wanted preferred shade. Its apple-scented berries had fallen and the shriveled leaves appeared deceptively innocuous, but it was mandragora root.

Elissa found her knife, knelt on the damp soil, and scribed a circle around the plant. “I call on Pluto,” she chanted softly, “Lord of the Underworld and his consort, Persephone.” According to Pliny, three circles were required for a charm to work. She scribed the second. “May Nero lose his breath, and may poison seep into his liver, stop his heart, turn his eyes to stone.” The third circle completed the spell. “May he burn for all eternity.”

She removed a vial of wine from her basket, carefully uncorked it, and poured the contents on the ground as Pliny instructed. Wiping perspiration from her brow, she prayed Jesus would forgive her. Surely it could not be wrong to destroy an enemy as evil as Nero.

She crawled around the plant, until she faced west. With both hands, she grabbed the stalk and tugged, but the root clung to the earth. Jabbing the knife into the earth, she rocked the blade back and forth, loosening the dirt. Again, she grabbed the stalk and yanked, fearing it might break. Finally the root gave way. She fell backward, victorious, the mandragora dangling in her hand. There was no scream, as predicted by the Jews, but the root resembled a human being: two arms, two legs, a torso and head.

A shadow fell across the ground. Elissa tossed the mandragora root into her basket, quickly covering it with a handful of thyme. Turning, she saw Angerona.

“What are you doing Elissa?”

“Gardening, what else?” Elissa wiped her earth-caked hands on her stola.

Angerona crouched beside her, peered into the basket. She brushed aside the thyme. “Love Apple,” she said. “I might have guessed.”

“Is it? I mistook it for parsnip. The two look similar.”

“I can guess what you’re concocting—”

Elissa licked her lips.

“—a love potion,” Angerona said triumphantly.

“Love potion!” Elissa choked down her laughter. “Nothing gets past you.”

“Take care, Elissa, or you’ll face the Collegiate of Pontiffs. I’m warning you as a friend.”

“A friend? The friend who betrayed my brother. The friend who sent Marcus to his death.”

“I’m truly sorry, Elissa.” Tears filled Angerona’s eyes. “I named Marcus to protect my family. If I could take it back I—”

“You can’t.”

“Forgive me. I beg you.”

“I curse the day I met you.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Elissa regretted them.

Angerona backed away, her eyes no longer sad, but fierce.

“I don’t mean that,” Elissa said. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know what sorry is.” Angerona turned and ran.

Collecting her basket, Elissa told herself she had nothing to fear. Even if Angerona ran to Tigellinus and he charged her with infidelity, a physical examination would prove her innocence.

Meanwhile, she had business to which she must attend.

According to Pliny, boiling mandragora root would result in the strongest tincture, and the deadliest.

“Assassination,” Lucan spoke in a harsh whisper.

Justinus glanced around the forum. Saturnalia began at sundown and the piazza overflowed with people, animals, and merchants. A market day had been declared, and an exception had been made for traffic—though it was midday, carts laden with amphorae of wine, sides of oxen, and sacks of grain, rolled up the winding road to the Domus Transitoria.

“I won’t resort to violence,” Justinus said.

He scanned the crowd. The Assembly had recessed early for the holiday and citizens streamed out of the Curia Julia. He nodded to a passing senator, trailed by petitioners. The senator nodded back, then glanced unsmilingly at Lucan. The poet was fast gaining a reputation as a troublemaker. Politicians, wishing to remain in Nero’s good graces, shunned him.

“Another of Nero’s pawns,” Lucan said, loudly.

“Let’s get out of here.”

They headed across the forum, in search of somewhere quiet where they could talk. Two men sat hunched on the steps of the Basilica Julia playing Terni Lapilli. Justinus stopped to watch and so did Lucan. Alternately, the men moved blue or red chips into hatch-marks scratched into the stone. On another step, four boys challenged each other in a heated game of walnuts. Between shouts and shoves they rolled the nuts into depressions, attempting to knock out the walnuts of their opponents.

“The trick is to be brutal,” Lucan said. “Hesitate and you can’t win.”

They continued walking past a fountain where women knelt to collect water. They entered an alleyway of butcher stalls, and ducked through hanging carcasses of beef, mutton, and pork—the smell heavy and sickening. They turned a corner, and entered another alleyway dedicated to green-grocers. Justinus stopped to scrutinize the rows of tables stacked with carrots, dark green kale, yellowish onions—a collage of winter vegetables.

He picked up a cabbage, weighed it in his palm.

“Can I help you?” a farmer asked.

Justinus set down the cabbage, and the farmer turned to a more promising customer.

“Violence costs the soul, Lucan.”

“You’ve been tainted by that zealot, Paul. What does a prophet know of politics?”

“What does a poet know?”

“I keep my fingers on the pulse of Rome, and I’m not alone in my hatred of—”

“Let’s go.” Justinus tossed the farmer a coin and took the cabbage.

“Go where?”

“To see Paul.”

“Why not? I’m in the mood for a debate.”

“Listen to reason, Lucan, before you do something you regret.”

“I regret each day that Nero lives.”

“Perhaps he will change.”

“When pigs sprout wings.”

“All things are possible, by the grace of God,” Justinus said.

“Then why does evil still exist?”

That was a good question. One Justinus couldn’t answer. He wanted to prove Lucan wrong. He prayed Nero might experience a transformation. But, lately, that hope seemed futile. Nero neglected business of state, devoting his days to athletic training, his nights to the lyre and wine. In order to expand his palace, he extorted bribes and depleted the treasury.

Justinus increased his pace, struggling to keep up with Lucan’s lanky stride. “I believe there’s good in all of us,” he said.

Lucan didn’t respond. He just kept walking toward the Hebrew Quarter.

* * * * *

Justinus sat cross-legged on the floor of the tentmaker’s shop alongside Timothy and Luke, listening quietly.

“Violence begets violence.” Paul’s words echoed Justinus’s thoughts.

“Sometimes violence is necessary.” Lucan’s booming voice made the room feel constricted. The low ceiling emphasized the poet’s height and, compared to the prophet, Lucan was a giant—in stature if not in temperament. “Force offers quicker results than platitudes,” he said.

“Tent-making has taught me patience,” Paul replied.

He smiled, and Justinus felt as if a lantern had been lit—the room glowed with his warmth. A panel of sailcloth rested in the prophet’s lap, and he used a curved needle to draw waxed thread through the sturdy fabric. Even at the age of seventy, his eyesight remained keen. Justinus had not been surprised to find him sewing. Tent-making had sustained Paul throughout his travels, and with help from Timothy and Luke the shop yielded a meager profit to fund their gatherings. The tent they worked on now was a rainbow colored pavilion that might shelter fifty people. A length of scarlet cloth stretched across the floor and was covered by a translucent sheet of papyrus. Needle pricks in the papyrus outlined a design, thousands of tiny perforations, through which carbon dust was sifted to mark the pattern. The scarlet cloth would then be cut and stitched to the palm-green body of the tent along with intricate designs in yellow, blue, and purple. Paul’s income from tent-making was supplemented by gifts from followers—he kept only enough on which to live, distributing the remainder to widows, orphans and the destitute. The prophet’s generosity amazed Justinus.

“I would like to learn such patience,” Justinus said.

Lucan grunted. “Where’s your guard this evening?” he asked Paul.

“I gave him leave to celebrate Saturnalia.” Paul drew his needle through the cloth, gently tugged the thread.

“You gave him leave?”

“Tigellinus may employ him, but my guard follows me.”

“Instead of sewing you should be planning a way to rid yourself of Tigellinus,” Lucan said. “But to rid yourself of a snake, you must cut off its head—in this case, Nero.”

Justinus had to agree. The question was how?

Lucan circled the room, restless as a gladiator before the games. He riffled through a store of goatskins that lay stacked in a corner then examined a birch pole, long as he was tall—materials used to construct the type of tent Justinus had carried as a soldier. Finding an earthen jar, Lucan opened it and sniffed.

“What’s this?”

“Tung-oil,” Paul said. “From China. My secret for waterproofing.”

“It stinks.”

“Careful not to spill it. Tung-oil is highly flammable.”

“An accelerant might be useful,” Lucan said.

“For what?” Justinus asked. “Are you planning to burn Nero at the stake?”

“Not a bad idea.” Lucan corked the jar of oil. “If we don’t act soon, he’ll make slaves of all of us.”

Paul set down the length of cloth. “Why not turn your talents to the Lord instead of running after demons, most of whom are your creation? God appointed Nero king, and he appointed you a poet.”

“How can you be so complacent? You’re Nero’s prisoner!” Lucan grabbed the tent pole and pounded the floor. “Soon you’ll be tried and put to death.”

Startled by the outburst, Timothy, Luke and Justinus shifted on their cushions, but Paul calmly returned to his sewing. “I’m a Roman citizen,” he said, “awaiting an appeal. Meanwhile, here in Rome, I’m free to practice my religion. Not so in Jerusalem.”

“Paul is right,” Luke said. A former physician, Luke often provided a voice of reason. “Last spring at Passover the temple’s high priest sent his dagger men to murder James.”

“James?” Justinus had never heard the name.

“The leader of our congregation in Jerusalem.” Timothy chewed his cherubic lips. “James followed Jewish law to the last letter.”

“Then why did the high priest have him assassinated?” Justinus asked.

“His brother was Jesus, and James claimed Jesus the Messiah.”

“James sided with Paul,” Luke added. “He agreed Gentiles in our congregation should be exempt from Mosaic Law, circumcision in particular.”

“I curse the Jews,” Justinus said. “They crucified their own Messiah.”

“Jews had nothing to do with the death of Jesus,” Luke said. “Our Lord’s death was ordered by the Roman Prefect of Judea, Pontius Pilate. High priests of the Jewish Temple lack the power to condemn a man to death. And crucifixion is a Roman method.”

“My mother was a Jewess,” Timothy said quietly. He looked at Justinus, but his eyes held no reproof, only sorrow. “Though she refused to recognize Jesus as the Son of God, I’ve never known a kinder woman.”

“Sorry,” Justinus said.

“Apology accepted.”

Justinus felt the reassuring touch of Paul’s hand on his shoulder. “Keep the tung-oil. Perhaps you’ll take up tent-making.” The prophet gave Justinus the earthen jar.

“Perhaps I’ll learn more patience.”

“Patience and forgiveness are no virtues when it comes to Nero,” Lucan said. “I have none, nor should you. Today Nero tolerates followers of Jesus, but tomorrow he may have you crucified.”

“It makes little difference how or where I die,” Paul said, “if my heart is with the Lord.”

Justinus rotated his shoulders, trying to loosen them. The old war wound ached. He wanted to learn patience and forgiveness, wanted to emulate Paul, but when he thought of Marcus, slaughtered like an animal, he had to agree with Lucan. Nero paid no attention to laws, but acted as he pleased. And some acts were unforgivable.

He got up, wandered to the window and peered through the shutters. Even in the Hebrew Quarter, the street was filled with Saturnalia revelers. Shouting and singing rang through the alleyway. Celebrants wore the soft felt caps of freedmen and carried lanterns to illuminate the dusk. Across the river, lights twinkled on Palatine Hill.

“The festival has started,” he said. “I smell smoke from the sacrifice. Soon the banquet will begin.”

Lucan and Paul continued arguing, Lucan’s voice raised and Paul’s voice calm.

Nero had arranged for banquet boards to be set out in the forum. A feast was to be served, more sumptuous than any public meal the urban mob had ever seen, followed by music, dancing, even gambling. Nero would make a brief appearance, basking in his popularity with the plebs, before attending his private celebration at the Domus Transitoria. Justinus had received no invitation; any pretense of friendship with Nero had died at Meditrinalia. Though he despised the excess of Nero’s banquets, the obscene waste, he might have gone—to see Elissa. Her last letter had been full of grief over her sister’s fate, and he longed to comfort her. Tonight, instead of feasting, he would pray for the House of Rubrius.

“There’s no reasoning with you!” Lucan’s voice brought Justinus back to the present. “You spew fantastic tales of miracles and divine intervention, but I have faith only in men’s greed.”

“My faith is in the Lord,” Paul said.

“Jesus was a man, like you and me. The ‘Lord’ you tout does not exist.”

Paul set down the panel he’d been sewing. “Sit.”

Lucan opened his mouth as if to continue arguing then closed it. Unable to ignore Paul’s command, he sat. Justinus sank onto a cushion next to Timothy and Luke.

“I see myself in you, young man,” Paul said, rising stiffly. “I’ve grown old, but I remember being just like you.” He winked at Lucan. “Self-righteous and arrogant.”

Lucan began to speak, but Paul raised a hand to stop him.

“Hear me out,” he said. “Humor an old man.” His smile made it impossible for Lucan to disagree. “I was the Pharisee of Pharisees, following Mosaic Law to the last letter. My great joy was to punish followers of Jesus. Who were they to heal the sick on the Sabbath? To feast on unsanctioned meat, and preach to gentiles? Infidels! I would see them dead.”

The floorboards creaked as Paul paced the room. He tugged at his gray beard. “Under the highest temple authority, in order to quell corruption, I was appointed to journey to Damascus. The road was tedious and unforgiving. My men were soon exhausted, but I drove them on. Outside the city gates I met my nemesis. An orb burned in the heavens, brighter than sun, blinding me with scalding light. I fell onto my knees as did my men. We prostrated ourselves, as no Jew should, except to the Divine Creator. And a voice said to me, ‘Saul,’—my Hebrew name is Saul—‘why do you persecute me?’

“You may imagine my amazement. ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

“The voice answered, ‘Jesus Christos, your savior.’ ”

Paul’s face grew radiant, and Justinus stared at him in wonder.

“Three days later I was baptized and my sight returned.” The prophet looked around the room with eyes sharp as a falcon’s. “I tell you this, so you may learn from my example.”

Even Lucan remained speechless.

Justinus wiped his nose, blinked his watery eyes. Within the confines of this room he felt the presence of the Lord. God’s love shimmered in the oil lamp’s glow, tempering encroaching shadows. Was it possible the light of Christos might dispel a world of darkness?

“In Christos we are one,” Paul said. “Roman, Jew, Greek, Egyptian.”

“I’ll never count myself as one with Nero,” Lucan said.

“Hate breeds hate,” Paul said. “I don’t believe in violence.”

“And I—” Lucan got up, walked toward the door. “—I don’t believe in miracles.”